One
Day In Albania
Europe's Unknown
Country ~ by Richard Robinson
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deck of the Antonios K rattled and shook beneath my feet as the dark land
mass loomed larger through a summer sea haze. Against a bluish mountain
backdrop the outlines of buildings sharpened slowly as we drew nearer Europe’s
most mysterious country. For long Albania had been a totalitarian state
and, before that, the fiefdom of the shadowy King Zog. Few would choose
it for a sun-and-fun holiday, but things are slowly changing.
As we juddered
towards Saranda, Albania’s southerly resort-port, a rash of blockhouses
came into focus, scattered across the mountainside. Closer in, they looked
like Iron Curtain tenements but as the haze thinned they revealed themselves
as the shells of new holiday hotels and apartments, almost all of them
only part-built. The Finnish girl, travelling with her mother, said that
they looked the work of a bored and monstrous child, who had no sooner
begun one project than he toddled off to start another.
Finns were
my companions for the day, as well as Czechs, Germans and a couple of New
Zealanders. Almost half the party aboard the Antonios K were, like me,
British. All were holidaymakers on the Greek island of Corfu. We had come
together from different resorts around the island to this orange-painted
tramp of a transport ship, drawn by the promise of an “Albanian Experience”
and a visit to the famous archaeological site of Butrint. I had rejected
the standard offerings of a plate-smashing Greek Night, a mountain Jeep
Safari and a Beach Bar-B-Q in favour of the Albanian Experience, which
promised something different and exciting but not too demanding, an easy
way to get a peek at a difficult country. |
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Of guidebooks
there were few. I consulted the Lonely Planet web site later and found
that, after eulogies of Albanian highlights, there followed a long list
of travellers warnings that covered everything from unexploded munitions
armed assault and mobster assassinations. None of these, though, was likely
in Saranda, the self-proclaimed “honeymoon capital” of Albania. When I
bought my ticket from the Golden Sun office, the rep told me that Albanian
day trips had been running each season since 1990, except when suspended
because of political tension. They had, she said “never lost anyone yet”.
She added as an afterthought that a couple had once stayed on there, to
spend some time with missionaries of their acquaintance, but they too eventually
returned safely.
I scanned the
bay of Saranda and its high density housing immediately behind the triangle
of sand that was its beach. Tenements colonised a low headland beyond a
petrol tanker, at anchor in the bay and bare brown hills reared steeply
behind. I searched for any trace of honeymoon potential, and could see
none. We edged towards a quay of such advanced state of dilapidation that
a single nudge from bulky Antonios K would surely wreck it for good
and all. A pair of uniformed police, there to check our passports, stood
well back from the potential hazard as the bow gate dropped with a great
clattering of chains. Our motley group – we had been rattling like peas
in a drum aboard the spacious transporter - filed off to the waiting bus,
there to be addressed by Spiros, our guide for the day. Spiros said we
drive across town to a seashore restaurant – a distance that could be walked
easily in ten minutes - before continuing to Butrint. Obviously we were
to be coddled throughout our Albanian Experience.
So now I had
arrived, in this country that aroused curiosity and wariness in equal measures.
I had tentatively explored the streets around the waterfront restaurant,
been invited to purchase linen handcrafts from street vendors, and witnessed
an altercation that developed into a heated argument but stopped just short
of an all-out brawl. My fleeting impression was that this was a friendly
place but volatile. Soon I was back on the bus and on my way to Butrint,
a UNESCO World Heritage Site. Along the way we skirted a vast agricultural
plain, created by draining a marshland, the massive concrete culverts now
cracked, the steel sluices rusted, a showcase for failed 50s technology.
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The ancient
founders of Butrint chose a strategic site – a low rise between a lake
and loop in a river, very close to the sea. Across the river a dusky plain
extended to the encircling mountains. It was a superbly sheltered
port in a defensible position that commanded the strait of Corfu – an important
trade route in ancient times. Spiros pointed-out the peculiarities of the
site as we left the shade of the rustling eucalyptus trees to begin our
walking tour. Here was an ancient wall of cyclopean stone, there an amphitheatre
built by the Romans. Above were medieval fortifications and, in a magical
gloaming, the ruin of a seven-vaulted Byzantine church. Because of its
location, Butrint had been coveted and extended throughout the ages and
it is this near-continuous occupation that makes Butrint a priceless asset
to science. Even as we scrambled, wide-eyed among the ruins (actually most
of the Brits drank fizzy drinks in the shade while complaining about the
heat) young archaeologists from the University of East Anglia emerged from
the ancient sunken port, covered in silt to the waist.
There was a
break for lunch at the same fancy waterfront restaurant on the way back,
where the buffet included Greek-like salads and meats augmented by rather
more Balkan-style (and very tasty) boiled vegetables. Rather than hang
around for the bus I elected to walk the short distance to the port and
weave my way between the side streets and the waterfront. Small children
would come up to me and shout “Spik Inglish!” in a forthright way. The
older buildings were uniformly drab, crumbling from a lack of maintenance,
an odd contrast to the unplanned, unfinished modern apartments that littered
the surrounding coast.
The absence
of parks and civic spaces was noticeable. Money had clearly found its way
here - there was a five-star hotel next to our restaurant - but its distribution
was random. I found a corner bar, one that was patronised by locals and
was, at the same time, quite presentable. I purchased a large beer, a Premium
Tirana Pils, for 170 Lek, pretty cheap by any standards. I sat outside
and watched the world go by, mainly in the form of street moneychangers.
I meandered down to the port by way of the beach, crowded with children
playing ball. Saranda – and I do not think I am being unfair – does not
amount to much, beyond being generally friendly and very different to your
average seaside resort. Back on the boat, the British were mainly complaining
about Butrint “I wouldn’t have gone if I knew we would have to do all that
walking” was the gist of it, although they seemed generally happy with
the upmarket facilities that the Saranda restaurant offered. The noticeably
slimmer Czechs, Finns and Germans were closer to my wavelength – fabulous
ancient site, awesome landscapes, but with a question mark over the desirability
of spending any length of time in a place like Saranda. Perhaps I should
leave the last word with a pony-tailed Albanian whom I met at Butrint and
who spoke drawling English like a rock band roadie: “Things are changing
here, you know? Give Albania a chance”.
The following
articles are Richard's previous articles for the magazine:
 Finnish
Lapland ~ In
The Artic Circle
Dodecanese
Islands Of Greece ~ Halki
And Tilos
How
To Walk In Spain ~ Trekking
Through The Beauty Of Spain
Spain
~ Revival
Of Arab Baths
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| Richard
Robinson is a UK-based travel writer, specialising in Andalucía
in southern Spain. For information, walks, accommodation etc. in Priego
de Córdoba and the Sierra Subbetica, visit his website: www.rural-andalucia.co.uk/ |
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Archaeological
site of Butrint
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